Behold the Brilliance
by The Light
Summary: A look into the twisted Slytherin psyche during Voldemort's first rising, interwined with the redemption and recovery of a fallen mind during his second.


**BEHOLD THE BRILLIANCE**

**by******

**The Light**

**Prologue**

_At first it was "highly intelligent", later it became simply "brilliant". My services were first offered to the Dark Lord when I was fifteen years old. At sixteen, I met Him face to face for the first time. At seventeen, I was made Death Eater._

_ Remembering it now, it is as though through some kind of rising fog.  All seems so…numb and cold. Almost mechanical, as though every move, every word, had been planned out and rehearsed for weeks beforehand. And yet I know it was not so. Here, yellow pages of journals and dairies speak and remind us of things that not amnesia, not Post-Trauma Syndrome, not years of insomnia could erase. It was…a time of passion. A time of breathless wonder, of discovery. Of a whole world becoming visible. Of sudden clarity. A time of power. A time of brilliance. _

_Oh yes, I remember. One could almost say that those were the times of our lives. When everyone feared to look over their shoulders, when everyone jumped at their shadows, we were the masters. We had the control. It was… I can not find the words to describe our "days of glory", as some might call them._

_People are easily deceived. And many believe that that was how Voldemort gained his followers—by deceiving them. Perhaps, but no. When he lied to us, we knew we were being lied to. We knew, even as we pledged our souls to him. We knew exactly what we were doing, exactly what we were going for and what we were getting into. I knew, my friends knew. We didn't talk about it—oh, one never talked of  such matters—but I remember vividly when we would sit together, and there'd be perfect silence, because each of us would be thinking…plotting. Power, glory, and brilliance. That was what we wanted. That was what he offered. Sacrifices, everyone knew, would have to be made._

A long winding hallway…low roof, stone walls and ceiling… sound of dripping water…sharp echoes of footsteps…pale green torches burning at even intervals…cold, damp smell…It all seemed to stretch forever. 

They walked. 

And as they walked, , slowly and echoing, he could feel his stomach tying itself into knots, feel feverish thoughts racing though his mind, heart banging  itself against his ribcage with deafening force. And outside, it felt cool and oddly relaxed. Lucius walked with a firm grip on his elbow. Lucius, he was—though he showed no signs of it—he was anxious, maybe even more than anxious, maybe he was even scared, about the meeting that was about to take place. If the Dark Lord was not pleased with the recruit…it was obvious what would happen.

"Do not look him in the eye." Softly, quickly. "Do not disagree with him. Speak clearly. When you come in, go down on one knee and bow your head. Do not get up until he raises you. Do you understand?" 

It had been all gone over time and time again. During dark nights, speaking quietly before the dying embers of the Slytherin common room. Then Lucius would turn to him, eyes blazing and bright, and begin as though a prayer, _do not look him in the eye... Walking a dark hallway, deserted, in silence, suddenly Lucius turning and gripping his shoulder. Those rules had been driven so deep into heart and mind, Severus dreamt of them. But nevertheless Lucius was reciting them feverishly once again. Only this time, with his voice echoing against the walls, with the green light and deep shadows, it struck even deeper._

"Yes." 

"Answer his questions completely. Don't ramble. Do not withhold information. Do _not_ lie to him."

"I understand."

"Address him only as 'Lord' or 'Master'. Don't interrupt him. And do not doubt him."

There was silence once again.

After what seemed like hours, but must have been only minuets, the hall curved for the last time and straightened into a long line that ran into shadows. At the end, stood a short, thick wooden door, with a steel bar running across it, looking much like an entrance to a dungeon cell. But it wasn't of course. A door to the future, a door to hell, a door to… perhaps, yes, perhaps some kind of dungeon.

The came to a halt, and while Lucius readied, Severus bowed his head, waiting. He was about to meet the Dark Lord. The symbol of terror and death, who could offer him knowledge and power and wealth and anything desired, in exchange for his services and his soul. He stood waiting, anxious, excited, terrified, impatient. Hot and cold at the same time. Mind writing a script for the encounter, and then summaries for the rest of his life. Trying to imagine what He would look like—for he had become a God-Satan figure to them all. What He would say. What He would do. 

Standing before that door, it was a rush bigger than any drug could ever give. Your heart beats so fast…you feel almost as though your blood will boil. And at the same time you're cold. Amazing.

Lucius reached into his sleeve and brought out a slender white mask. It fit his face perfectly, and the minuet he put it on, Severus shifted, stiffened, and felt suddenly naked and vulnerable. Lucius drew out his wand, and he copied the action because he could, and knocked softly on the door.

And again, silence. Lucius turned to him. For the third time, his hand disappeared inside his sleeve, and when he brought it out, he held in it a thick black cloth. Understanding immediately, he turned and was blindfolded. The cloth was made of felt, and was strangely warm. More silence.

Finally, they heard a rustle as Lucius knocked once again, and this time spoke softly,

"Aperite."

There was a sound of creaking hinges and a sudden rush of cold air as the door swung in. Lucius once again took a firm hold of his elbow, and they stepped in. 

There commenced the walk to Lord Voldemort's quarters. 

It was long and tedious, and one longed for it to be over long before it was. There were side voices to be heard speaking softly during their whole decent (for the path Lucius was talking them by was gradually sloping downwards). Sometimes he'd hear hushed laugher. Sometimes feel sudden heat gaze his face when someone would set out a burst of fire or something from their wand. Sometimes there's be cold air when they passed a branching-off passage. 

Lucius didn't speak. His companion, though knowing very well that it was a useless process, because it was too late now, was thinking.

One will say this much—he was terrified. There was no doubt in his decision; Severus was not one for second thoughts. And it didn't frighten him that He could very easily kill him should he fail to be of satisfaction. Severus Snape was sixteen years old, and he was not scared of death. It did not scare him that these were his last moments of freedom before he would become but a slave to an ultimate power. Though he was not being made Death Eater yet, it was already written. 

No, he was scared as a sinner is scared when he is about to meet God.

They stopped again. Pause. He felt the cold of Lucius' fingers on his cheek, delicate and thin, and then the soft, very quiet voice saying, "You are ready."

_I am ready._ He thought, and that was his last clear conscious thought for a time.

What followed was a swirl of sudden impressions that he wasn't later sure was real. Every slide and vision seemed completely separate and very important. Lucius' cold hand on his shoulder forcing to kneel… air vibrations as something that was greater-than-human walked towards him… puff of breath on his face… the blindfold falling away, making him feel beastly cold… eyes, blue and clear and terrible boring into him… a sharp sudden pain exploding everywhere…a voice that was foreign and not like his own murmuring "My Lord…"

_My Lord.___

_We do not speak of those times now, neither those of us that were tempted nor those that gave in. We do not think about them. Sometimes, when we sleep, we dream about them. We wake up from those dreams screaming._

_But this much must be said:_


End file.
